[ Erik rarely allows control to be taken from him, for another to take the dominant place because he's just not built that way (these are his trust issues talking). But Arthur has proved, throughout a course of many, many years, to be a crucial exception in many things.
Most of all in this.
Erik pushes back, unwilling to go without a fight as fingers more suited to wielding and manipulating metal threads through his hair. The kiss is hungry, absolutely ravenous, and he cannot help but put truth in the adage that absence really did indeed make the heart grow fonder.
Or, in their case -- absence makes one desperately, dangerously itching to fuck the other into the mattress. Or insert appropriately flat surface of choice
( ... )
He wants him to fight, fight and claw and resist and shove because Erik doesn't want to be bored with him the way a lion would be quickly tired of a wildebeest that rolls over on command. He likes the challenge, the violence, the anger that sparks him off time after time -- as does the passion that burns in his veins.
And perhaps this is why Erik is so warm; because Arthur makes him so angry with his stubbornness, his pride and that unbreakable desire for control, too -- so much so that his anger burns like a living thing, hot in his chest and looking to raze the next unfortunate target into nothing.
Erik thinks that he will kill him; one day, he really will kill him for this maybe; his one lifeline to this world aside from the white-hot vengeance that commands his every move. Erik gives, tossing the shirt he'd just tugged off over his shoulder, pressing up against a tailor-made designer vest, and it gives him a grim sense of pleasure when he tugs, pops the first two buttons and that should teach
( ... )
[ if arthur weren't so lost in the sensation of erik against him, or the buzzing in his own head, he'd shove at him for ruining his vest until erik pinned his wrists above his head and squeezed. but the most he does now is hiss sharply and slap erik's hand away like he's reprimanding a child, turning his attention away from his pants to pluck open the buttons on his shirt and shrug it off. the white pinstriped material billows to the floor, and arthur's already pushing erik back, his thighs squeezing tight around his hips as he moves to straddle his waist.
god, he doesn't fucking have anything, and he wants to tell erik that, but they've already mucked up the moment enough with the few words they've spoken so far. in the dark, arthur can't make out the marks he's already left on erik's neck, on his back and shoulders, but they're there. deep, dark bruises and long, thin cuts, and if they weren't so angry, so wound up and pissed off, arthur would run his fingers over them and mouth soft kisses across erik's jaw in a silent apology
( ... )
Comments 4
Most of all in this.
Erik pushes back, unwilling to go without a fight as fingers more suited to wielding and manipulating metal threads through his hair. The kiss is hungry, absolutely ravenous, and he cannot help but put truth in the adage that absence really did indeed make the heart grow fonder.
Or, in their case -- absence makes one desperately, dangerously itching to fuck the other into the mattress. Or insert appropriately flat surface of choice ( ... )
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He wants him to fight, fight and claw and resist and shove because Erik doesn't want to be bored with him the way a lion would be quickly tired of a wildebeest that rolls over on command. He likes the challenge, the violence, the anger that sparks him off time after time -- as does the passion that burns in his veins.
And perhaps this is why Erik is so warm; because Arthur makes him so angry with his stubbornness, his pride and that unbreakable desire for control, too -- so much so that his anger burns like a living thing, hot in his chest and looking to raze the next unfortunate target into nothing.
Erik thinks that he will kill him; one day, he really will kill him for this maybe; his one lifeline to this world aside from the white-hot vengeance that commands his every move. Erik gives, tossing the shirt he'd just tugged off over his shoulder, pressing up against a tailor-made designer vest, and it gives him a grim sense of pleasure when he tugs, pops the first two buttons and that should teach ( ... )
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god, he doesn't fucking have anything, and he wants to tell erik that, but they've already mucked up the moment enough with the few words they've spoken so far. in the dark, arthur can't make out the marks he's already left on erik's neck, on his back and shoulders, but they're there. deep, dark bruises and long, thin cuts, and if they weren't so angry, so wound up and pissed off, arthur would run his fingers over them and mouth soft kisses across erik's jaw in a silent apology ( ... )
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